The heat has broken. Some angry bruises moved through on the radar in the middle of the night, and dropped temperatures like a rock, although not as much as expected. And it didn’t rain more than a few angry spitballs here and there. After one of the wettest springs in anyone’s memory, we’ve now gone a week without rain, and already my neighbors’ sprinklers are coming on in the wee sunrise hours. Is it enough to awaken the household’s most fitful sleeper? Why yes, it is, although I can usually fall back into a doze afterward in the click-click-click white noise. It could be far worse, I know; neighborhoods with wild pheasants get to listen to them crow at the same hour.
A few years ago, I interviewed the head of the groundskeeping crew at Comerica Park about lawn care, for some short thing in a local magazine. Ask the experts, etc. What’s the biggest mistake people make with their own lawns, I asked.
Overwatering. Ha ha.
So how’s everyone today? I’m counting the last few before the end of school, and it can’t really come soon enough. Today and tomorrow are the de facto final days, as next week is a blur of promotion/honors ceremonies, celebratory end-of-year lunches out and, once again, a trip to Cedar Point. At least I don’t have to drag her there this summer; she’s had enough roller-coastering to hold her for the year, and my policy on the Point is every other year. No, this summer I have to drag my daughter and three of her friends to Cleveland, for the Warped Tour show we’re missing because the Detroit stop falls during her summer camp. (Oh, to be 14 again.) The bargain I struck: I will take you to Cleveland, but you must go to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame with me on the same trip. Agreed. And, you must watch the 20-minute movie that ties rock ‘n’ roll to Delta blues and African tribal rhythms, because lo, it is educational. Agreed. Kate has much sneering contempt for what she calls “butt rock,” which seems to boil down to “anything my parents like, or the parents of any of my friends,” although she’ll allow that the Ramones might still approach coolness. And though she’d never, ever admit it, she might occasionally have a thought that her parents’ taste in butt rock might exceed that of her friends’ parents, one of whom asked her, while playing Guitar Hero, if her mother (that would be me, in this convoluted sentence of unclear antecedents) was “a member of the Kiss Army” back in the day.
“Jesus Christ, no. Are you kidding me?” I replied in horror upon hearing this. I try to keep the pottymouth to a minimum around her, but if anything called for taking the Lord’s name in vain, it’s the idea that I ever, ever listened to Kiss with anything approaching pleasure and affirmation. My sole grudging acknowledgement of their presence on earth is a copy of “Detroit Rock City” in my iTunes, and even that is the Mighty Mighty Bosstones’ version, a gift from Ashley Morris when we moved here. Ashley liked Kiss, but his overall coolness trumps the Lame factor, and besides, he was younger than me. We all have our guilty pleasures from high school, but the first Kiss album was released when I was already in college, and was listening to Roxy Music. I stuck the first Roxy Music CD in the car player last winter, and asked Kate what she thought of “Re-Make/Re-Model.” She listened for about four seconds and delivered her default shrug. Which means: Butt rock.
OK, then. The morning is fleeting, so let’s skip to the bloggage:
I followed the link LAMary posted yesterday to Jezebel post on rabbit showjumping. I’d seen the video before, but I hadn’t seen the amazing still photos of the same activity in the Daily Mail. In my riding days, I probably looked at a million photos of horses clearing fences, but these are fascinating in a whole new way. It’s striking how similar the jumping form of the two animals is. Now all they need is some mouse “riders,” and we’re on our way to Cute Overload. A final note: The headline and story both refer to rabbit jumping as “dressage.” You’d think a daily newspaper in a country where equestrian sports were invented would know what dressage is, but obviously not. It ain’t jumping.
I generally stay away from any site with “watch” in the title, but these clips of David Barton, yet another right-wing scholar, beggar belief.
I’ve been neglecting Tom & Lorenzo lately, mainly because their redesign bugs me, but I need to get back in the habit:
What’s the point in showing up to a children’s benefit if you’re going to scowl like a mafioso in all the pictures? Once again, he looks like a kid wearing his big brother’s suit. It’s not a bad suit and normally the fact that it’s too big on him wouldn’t cause us to take so many points off, but his perma-scowl is pissing us off and making him unpleasant to look at, so… Score: 4/10. Lighten the fuck up, dude.
Who else could this be about? Marc Anthony, Mr. J-Lo.
OK, must dash.